


It Had To Be You

by pulangaraw



Category: White Collar
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-05
Updated: 2010-03-05
Packaged: 2017-10-07 18:01:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/67729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pulangaraw/pseuds/pulangaraw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal runs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Had To Be You

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to china_shop for a great beta!

It happens on a Monday morning. At five minutes past seven, Peter's phone rings and the friendly female voice that Peter associates with the US Marshals Monitoring Unit tells him that tracking anklet 9305 Alpha stopped transmitting at exactly three minutes past seven. Peter swears, then looks at Elizabeth apologetically.

"It's Neal."

She hands him his keys. "Go."

He makes it to June's house - the last transmitted position of the tracker - in record time. The twist in his gut tells him that this time it's the real thing. None of their open cases require Neal to pull a stunt like this. There's the slight possibility that Neal's past has finally caught up with him in the form of an old associate or enemy, but somehow Peter knows it's not that. He can't explain it, he just knows.

When the maid opens the door, he rushes past her with a murmured apology, up the stairs to what used to be Neal's room. He's already thinking in the past tense. The door is open and the anklet's lying on the kitchen table, in plain sight. The strap is intact, but the plastic casing of the tracker itself is broken and the hardware is neatly arranged next to it on the table top. The sight makes Peter feel sick.

He's always suspected that this would happen. For the first six months he'd been waiting for the call twenty-four seven. Slowly, gradually, his wariness had relaxed. He'd allowed himself to hope. Hope that Neal would stay, that he would eventually turn away from his former life and settle into legal ways to occupy that big brain of his. Peter hadn't really believed it, but he'd thought that maybe Neal would at least wait out his four years. He'd hoped that he wouldn't be conned by the con man... that Neal enjoyed working with Peter as much as Peter enjoyed working with Neal.

He'd been wrong. Obviously working with Peter had been just as much a con for Neal as schmoozing his way into an upscale dinner party without invitation. Peter should have seen it coming. He should have anticipated it, considering he'd spent three years of his life chasing the man.

The next thing Peter does is not actually very high on the official FBI list of what-to-do-when-your-partner-and-ex-convict-does-a-runner. He dials Moz's number. Right now he doesn't care if his call is going to give Moz a panic attack. If he's even there to answer.

Moz answers after the third ring, "Mr Suit. Don't you have specially trained minions to do your work for you?"

"Moz," Peter says, way beyond playing games, "where is Neal?"

There's a short pause, "What do you mean? Check his tracker if... oh." More silence. "He ran," Moz eventually says, a note of awe in his voice.

Peter grits his teeth. "Did you help him lose the anklet?"

"I wish." There is a chance that Moz is lying to him, but Peter is pretty sure that was real surprise a moment ago. So he chooses to believe that Moz really didn't know. Peter hears some shuffling from Moz's end of the line. "When did you lose him?"

"I-," Peter stops himself. "Where did he go, Moz?"

Moz snorts and Peter can't really blame him. He's grasping at straws here. "Do you really think I'd tell you, even if I knew?"

"No."

"Good."

There's another short pause. "If you talk to him, tell him I'll find him. Tell him it's only a matter of time and this time..." Peter doesn't finish the sentence. He can't make himself say it. It hurts – not just his pride, but somewhere deep in his chest, where he has no business hurting this much over a convicted felon who ran away. Peter clicks the phone shut without a good-bye.

He stares at the anklet on the table for a few minutes, mind blank. Then he shakes himself, presses the speed dial for the office and calls it in. The next few hours go by in a blur.

\-----

Peter is sitting in Hughes' office, giving his first status report on the case of Neal Caffrey – the second edition.

"How can you be sure he really did run? That he wasn't being forced?" Hughes asks, playing devil's advocate.

Peter closes his eyes for a second, sees the anklet lying on the table. "Because he left me a message," he says slowly.

Hughes raises his eyebrows.

"The tracker. On the table. It's a message." Peter swallows and makes himself say it, "It means good-bye."

\----

Over the next days, Peter checks any and every lead he can think of that might tell him where Neal went. He goes by Moz's storage unit, but that is dark and empty, and Peter knows that there's no need for surveillance. Moz is gone. Peter himself gave him the tip.

He checks up on Alex, at least as far as he can. Jones was right – the woman has powerful friends and they are none too happy about him poking his nose into their business. Eventually he has to admit defeat. Alex has vanished too. Peter can't tell if it's coincidence or careful planning.

He pokes Interpol long enough to get a contact for Mei Lin. In a clipped voice she informs him that she has no idea where Neal Caffrey is and that she couldn't care less about it. Peter doesn't quite believe her, but he has no leverage, so he has to let it go.

His attempts to find the location of either Kate or the music box are just as futile. Kate vanished without a trace a couple weeks after Peter talked to her, and no one in the Bureau has been able to find her. At least, no one who would tell Peter about it if they knew where she was. The music box could just as well be a myth for all the information Jones and Cruz are able to dig up.

The dead ends tire Peter out. He's not used to not solving a case anymore.

\-----

At first, Peter doesn't want to talk about it with Elizabeth. When she asks, he flatly refuses to answer. She tries her best, but Peter just can't. If he talks with her about it, he'll have to tell her the truth, and he isn't ready to face that – yet.

It takes him five days – five days of futile phone calls and reading through old files until his eyes burn – until he is finally worn down enough to not give a damn any more.

"I thought he'd stay. I thought we had something good." Peter presses his face into El's shoulder.

El strokes a hand down his back. "I know, honey. Me too."

What she doesn't say, Peter thinks grimly, is that maybe it wasn't good enough. He sucks in a harsh breath – he's not going to cry, damn it – and presses her close. She holds him tight.

\----

After a few weeks, Hughes orders Peter to put the case aside. He doesn't officially close it, but he makes it very clear that it's going on the back burner and Peter is not allowed to throw any more of their tight budget out the window for a case that is clearly not going anywhere.

Peter argues, eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep and too much reading, hands shaky with too much caffeine. Hughes refuses to get into an argument and finally tells Peter to take a few days off. "I don't want to see you back here before Wednesday," he says to Peter's retreating back.

\----

When Peter comes home, he goes straight for the liqueur cabinet and within the next hour and a half he gets spectacularly drunk. El finds him sprawled on the couch, too drunk to even get up. Peter later thinks he remembers her murmuring a sympathetic "oh, honey" before she bodily hauled him to his feet and up the stairs.

He gets up in the middle of the night to purge himself of the rest of the alcohol. When he climbs back into bed, feeling miserable and hung over, he silently curses Neal Caffrey.

The next morning, El greets him with silence and a stern look over the breakfast table. It breaks Peter's heart to be doing this to her. If he'd known this was going to happen, he would never have opened the file Hughes pushed across the desk eight years ago.

"I'm sorry," he says into his coffee mug.

Her expression softens. "It's okay."

He shakes his head, "No, it's not. It's really not, El." He looks up at her, gathers what's left of his courage. He owes her this. "I love him, El. I love him and I wish I didn't, but there's nothing I can do."

She looks at him, then reaches over the table and takes his hand in hers. "Did you really think I didn't know?"

He shakes his head, mutely. Of course she knew. He is an idiot.

"I'm glad you're finally ready to admit it."

"For all the good it does," Peter snorts.

A sad smile plays around her lips. "You never know."

He raises his eyebrows at her, genuinely surprised, but she just shakes her head, pats his hand and gets up to refill her mug.

\----

There are hints, of course, but they're never substantial enough to tell Peter exactly where to look.

Someone executes a brilliant heist at the house of the curator of the Prado Museum. By the time Peter hears of it the trail is two weeks old, and there's nothing that could link the theft to Neal Caffrey other than Peter's gut feeling.

Around Easter, he hears that someone – the description is so vague it could have been anyone, but Peter would bet his car that it was Neal – managed to make millions by forging Toshiba bonds so well that, once the Japanese police got their hands on them, it took them eight days to determine they were fakes.

And then there's the rumour about someone breaking into Arnault's French villa, but since there's no official police record, Peter has no way to find out if it's true, let alone what got stolen or who might be a suspect.

Peter's half-secret file of Possible-Criminal-Offences-Committed-By-Caffrey grows, but there's nothing to give him the lead he needs. It reminds Peter of his first year trying to catch Neal, when he stumbled around in the dark so much, he sometimes thought he'd never find the man. As much as it frustrates him, it also give Peter hope. He did it once, he can do it again.

\----

"Do you hate him?" Peter asks Elizabeth over dinner one evening. It must be completely out-of-the-blue for her, he thinks, but she doesn't even bat an eyelash.

"Should I?"

"It's just – for the past eight years, I've spent more time thinking about Neal Caffrey than I've spent being with you."

She cocks her head. "For the first three years you felt so guilty about it, that the time I had with you more than made up for it."

"And the other five years?"

She considers for a moment. "The four years he spent in prison, you were home – and I mean that both physically and mentally – a lot more. So much so, it almost got boring." He raises his eyebrows at her in mock horror, but she ignores him. "The last year – well, I have to say it was one of the best years of my life."

"How so?"

"Because you were happy." She gives him a soft smile, before she elaborates. "Working with Neal made you happy. He kept you on your toes, yes, but between the two of you, you also managed to come up with some of the most ridiculous ways to solve cases. He got you to be creative. It suits you."

"But what about you?" Peter asks, almost despite himself.

"He made me happy too." She laughs at his surprised expression and adds, "Not like that, silly. Although..."

"Although?"

"Let's just say, I wouldn't have said no if you two had asked." She winks at him.

Peter laughs. It's his first real laugh in a while. "I'm sure he'd have loved to know that."

That night, as he pushes into El's warm, wet heat, Peter allows himself to think of Neal and what it would feel like to do the same to him. When he comes, he's not sure if it's because of El and their familiar play or because of the fantasy. Maybe it's both.

He's almost asleep when El strokes a hand through his hair, then tucks herself into him and murmurs, "Maybe one day."

\----

Peter is in San Diego for a conference when his phone rings at three in the morning. He grumbles as he reaches for it. This better be good.

"Burke."

"I need your help," the voice at the other end says. "He's in trouble and I can't get him out by myself"

Peter is immediately wide awake. It's a familiar voice and it takes all of Peter's self control not to say Moz's name. Instead he sits up, rubs a hand over his face and tries to calm his suddenly jingling nerves.

"How long did it take you to find him?" Peter can't stop himself from asking.

"What? Three months. And he found me."

At least that's something, Peter thinks.

"Listen, suit. I really need your help."

This brings Peter straight back to the topic at hand. "Fill me in."

"Not over the phone. I'm in the vicinity."

Peter startles, "I'm not in-," he starts to say, but Moz cuts him off.

"Do you think I'm stupid? I know exactly where you are. Meet me at 34 Shore Drive. Shouldn't take you more than twenty minutes," he says.

"I'll be there."

Peter is already off the bed and reaching for his pants when Moz hangs up.

\----

"What did he get himself into?" Peter asks, in lieu of a greeting as he slides into the booth opposite Moz. They're in a shabby looking diner, somewhere on the outskirts of San Diego. Peter had to promise the cab driver an extra twenty percent to get him to drive out here this early in the morning.

Moz waves a hand.

"If you want my help, you better tell me."

Moz just stares blankly back at him.

Peter knows how to play this game. They sit in silence until Moz breaks. "Alright. He misjudged a distance. Now he's somewhere he'd rather not be. I trust you've heard of the Tijuana prison riots?"

Peter swears.

"Look. All I need you to do is go for a walk at 8pm tonight and make sure you take your FBI credentials with you." Moz says.

"You're kidding me."

"Do I look like someone who jokes? No. If I had the time I would make my own, but I don't have time right now and working from an original is faster and easier. It would also help if you wait 24 hours before you call it in as stolen."

Peter stares. "You really think you can get Neal out of a Mexican prison by waving a fake FBI badge?"

"Of course not. But I've always believed in 'the less you know the more I am a happy man'."

"That's not how it goes."

Moz rolls his eyes. "I rather like you, despite appearances. I'm trying to keep you out of this for your own good, Mr _FBI_ agent."

"Moz-" Peter starts, then shakes his head. "Fine."

Moz nods and slides out of the booth. "See you around."

Peter nods good-bye, waits a few seconds then follows him out. He has half a mind to try and trail Moz, but the man has already vanished from sight and Peter gives it up as a lost cause.

\----

All day Peter fights the urge to call El, get her take on what he's about to do. But you never know who is listening, so Peter resists and makes his own decision. He just hopes he won't live to regret it.

He leaves the hotel at 7.58 pm and walks aimlessly around the blocks, not sure what he is waiting for. There are a few people on the street, but no one looks like they're about to steal an FBI agent's wallet. As if they would.

At seven past eight he pats his pocket and finds it empty. He checks his trouser pocket – the one he'd put his eighty dollars in cash in earlier and finds the money still there. He decides to spend at least some of it in the next bar.

It's pointless to try and not think about the events of the day. All his instincts tell him to do something. He's not used to not being in charge. He has the urge to drive to Tijuana himself and get Neal out of that prison even if he has to break him out. The intensity of it surprises Peter.

He wonders if he should have pushed Moz more – if he could have forced him to let Peter in on the plan. But Moz had been right, of course. And Moz knows what he's doing. There's nothing for Peter to do but wait and hope that someday he'll get a snippet of information to let him know that Neal is okay.

Peter spends the next twenty-four hours in a state of suspended reality. He's barely paying attention to the last day of the conference. He calls in the stolen wallet that evening. No one seems to suspect anything. Peter doesn't think anyone ever will. Moz wouldn't be that careless.

\----

When he checks out of the hotel the next morning, the concierge hands him his receipt with a carefully folded origami tie attached to it.

Peter keeps it together until he's out of the hotel and on a bench in the nearby park. His hands shake as he unfolds and smooths out the paper to read it. The handwriting is eerily familiar.

+32° 33' 26.11" -116° 48' 2.02"  
1300

It has to be the most straightforward secret message Neal Caffrey has ever written. Peter wonders if he should feel insulted, but is too giddy with relief to really care.

When he looks it up, he finds that it's some non-descript spot somewhere between Tijuana and Tecate. On the Mexican side of the border. _Figures,_ he thinks and smiles. He checks his watch. It's just gone 10am and his plane leaves at five – more than enough time to make it to the rendezvous and back. If he is going.

\----

He calls Elizabeth from a payphone on the side of the road and explains the whole situation in as few words as he can. It's stupid and it might cost him his job, but he can't bring himself to do this without at least telling her. He doesn't even try to tell himself that he's not asking for her permission.

"Oh, honey," she says, "just make sure he's okay."

"I will."

When he drives on he feels strangely calm.

\----

"Damn it, Neal," says Peter as he slides into the passenger seat of Neal's car. His own rental is parked a few meters away.

"Good to see you too, Peter."

Neal looks like shit. His hair is cut so short it's actually sticking up, he looks thin and tired and there is a bruise, old enough to have turned yellow, on his right cheek. Peter fights the urge to pull him into a hug. They're not friends, he reminds himself, they're just an escaped felon and an old FBI agent that used to play cat and mouse.

"Why did you run?" Peter asks, after a long moment of silence.

Neal hesitates. Peter can actually see the moment when he decides to tell the truth. What Neal believes is the truth. "I thought I had to. Kate... she contacted me. I thought-" he breaks off, takes a deep breath, "You were right all along. She conned me."

Peter nods his answer, deciding to play along for now.

The words are spilling out of Neal now, as if he's been waiting a long time to tell his story. "She'd planned it all along, you know. The visits, the good-bye, the secret enemy. It was all her." He laughs, self-deprecatingly, "Looks like I taught her too well."

"What about Fowler?"

"He was just in the right place at the right time. He was after you and the best way of getting to you was by going after me. After you got me out of prison and working for you, of course. The photograph – he planted it. They worked together for a while, then she paid him off and that was that."

"Don't tell me you were surprised by that." Peter turns to look at the other man, "Why did you run, Neal?"

There's a beat of absolute silence. Peter waits for the rebuff, the eloquent sentences that will redirect, rephrase and not go anywhere near the truth whatsoever. Then Neal looks over at Peter, looks him in the eye for the first time. "Because I could."

Peter nods. It really is that simple. It's kind-of anticlimactic, considering he finally got an answer out of Neal Caffrey that wasn't some sort of elaborate lie.

"I'm sorry, Peter."

Peter shrugs. There's nothing he can say to that, really.

"What happens now?"

Neal smiles. "Now you go back to your job and your wife."

"And you?"

"I go back to what I do best." Neal looks out the window, at the steering wheel, his own hands – anywhere but at Peter.

"Neal."

"Peter, don't." Neal shakes his head.

Peter recognises pleading when he hears it, and it breaks him. Throwing commonsense to the wind, he turns half around in his seat, grabs Neal by the shoulder and neck, almost roughly, and pulls him into an embrace. It's awkward and uncomfortable, because Neal is stiff and resistant. But Peter doesn't let go, just holds on until Neal finally gives in and leans into Peter. Peter can feel Neal's fists curl into the front of his shirt.

They cling to each other for what feels like an eternity, Neal's breath hot against Peter's neck. The sensation sends a rush of heat through Peter and he can't suppress the full body shudder that follows.

Neal pulls his head back, stares at Peter, his eyes roaming Peter's face before they settle on his mouth. Peter's throat is dry, his heart hammering in his chest and _oh, no – oh, please no, no, no_ stuck in his head. By the time he regains enough brain power to try and get them both back on safe ground, it's too late. Neal's lips close over his, warm and soft. Peter's eyes flutter shut and his lips open without a conscious thought. This, he thinks later, is when he officially crossed the line into insanity.

The kiss is short and without any finesse.

"God, Neal," Peter croaks when they break apart.

Neal doesn't say anything, just stares out the front window, hands clasped tightly in his lap. Peter clears his throat. "I should go."

Neal nods, still not looking at him. Peter presses his lips together to stop himself from saying anything else. There's nothing he can say or do to fix this – they both know it.

When Peter reaches for the door handle, Neal says, so quietly that for a moment Peter thinks he's misheard, "Three years, two months and six days."

"What?"

"Statute of Limitations," Neal clarifies behind Peter's back.

Peter swallows hard, turns around and fixes Neal with a stare. "Then we'll see you in three years, two months and seven days," he says, "and you better not do anything stupid in the meantime."

Neal just looks back at him, eyes wide and – as always – impossibly blue. Peter stares into them for as long as he dares.

He is almost out of the car when Neal says quietly, "Tell Elizabeth she should go for the limauge mocha."

"Will do," says Peter, not even trying to hide his smile, and slams the door shut.


End file.
